Without waiting for an answer he was gone; and Sybella was left to her own cogitations.
Jean rose from a low chair beside the drawing-room fire to greet Cyril. She seemed to have been for once enjoying the luxury of idleness; and there was a touch of mournful gravity in the look she turned upon him. It brought to Cyril's mind the pale reproachful visionary likeness which had come to him on the marshes, blotting out Emmie's face.
"It is late for a call; but you will give me a few minutes," he said. "Will you not?"
"I can spare a few minutes. It is almost bedtime."
"I have just heard something which I didn't know before. About your father going to Australia for two years. Is it true?"
"Dr. Ingram advises at least a year and a half. He would prefer two years. Yes, it was settled days ago."
"And I never heard! But he ought not to go alone."
"He must."
"Is he well enough?"
"No—not if it could be helped. We have no choice."
"Only, if the thing could be managed—surely, he ought to have a companion. Think, if he were taken worse out there—alone among strangers—"
"I know! Do you think I don't know?" asked Jean, lifting sad eyes to his. "Cyril, I didn't expect you to be cruel. Why should you say it to me? I know all so well, and yet I cannot go. There are all the expenses of his illness—and the locum tenens—and his voyage! And I shall cost him almost nothing in England, living with cousin Chrissie and Jem. Don't you see?—The thing has to be."
"I'm not speaking unkindly, but because I have a reason." Cyril moved to a chair nearer Jean, and looked earnestly into her face. "Jean—I have a plan, and I think it may be a comfort to you. Will you let me go out with Mr. Trevelyan? Will you trust him with me—as my charge?"
"You?"
"I mean it. I'm not joking. To-morrow I shall run up to Town for a few days; and I can get an outfit in no time. There isn't a grain of difficulty. I'll secure my passage at once in the same vessel and be ready to start . . . It's the most delightful thing I ever thought of. I'm sick of the Brow, and I want something to do, and I've been longing to see more of the world. The expense is nothing. I'll do my best to bring him back to you, safe and sound. Will you trust me?"
A thought came swiftly to Jean as she listened. "He has gone too far with Miss Lucas, and thinks it best to escape!"
Yet she doubted, because of his joyous air; and while the guess was not so very wide of the mark, Jean was ignorant of attendant circumstances. She did not know what to believe, and answered slowly, after some hesitation: "Yes; if you really wish to go, for your own sake. It would be the greatest relief—of course—to know that somebody would be with him."
"For my own sake—and for his—and most of all for your sake!"
"No, not for mine. But if you seriously think of going to Australia for your own sake, then I should be only too thankful if you could be in the same ship with my father."
"Most of all for your sake, Jean!"
Cyril repeated the words emphatically, and it was impossible to mistake his meaning. No flush came to Jean's pale cheek, as she replied, "Call it what you like. I shall be very grateful."
"I don't want gratitude. I want something different. When I come back—Jean, listen to me—don't turn away! I have no right to speak now—I know I have not—but when I come back—"
He had not meant to say this; the words seemed to be wrenched from him.
"Stop, Cyril! Hush! I must go upstairs."
"Not yet. There's no hurry. I must know about the ship; and you must listen to me. When I come back, if I have carried out my trust faithfully—then—"
"No—I am not going to listen."
"You must! You don't know what I want to say."
Jean laid her hand resolutely across Cyril's mouth.
"No—hush—I will not!" she repeated. "You are to say no more! . . . What of that poor little Miss Lucas? You see—I know! I dare say you have meant no harm—and you are doing this kindness to my father, so I must not blame you—but there cannot be any playing fast and loose. What you do is for his sake—your sake—anything you like, only not to do with me!"
Cyril removed her hand from his mouth, and kept it prisoner. He had merely meant to give her a gentle hint as to his hopes; but now there seemed to be no choice about speaking out; now he could not restrain himself. It might be the last chance for two years or more.
"You needn't be afraid, Jean. I'm not doing what is wrong. You don't understand how things are, and I want to make you understand! . . . I've been a fool, and I don't deny it! She has not suffered—she doesn't care a rap for me! Yes, I know—for she won't have me . . . I suppose it was a sort of craze. I did think I wanted her; and I was demented enough to speak—and then I found out! I shall not forget what it was—to feel that I had put a barrier between you and me for life! It was—awful . . . I seem to have lived through ten years yesterday. Till her answer came, I mean! . . . You see—I'm hiding nothing from you! And you can think what you like—despise me, if you like—But if ever I marry, you will be my wife! You—and nobody else."
"Are you going to keep me much longer?"
"Not if you will stay without being kept. I'm not asking you to say anything now. It wouldn't be fair. I can't expect you to believe in me yet. Only, by-and-by, when I come back—when you find out that I am the same—that I shall always be the same—don't you think—? No, I'm not asking you to speak, really! You shall give me an answer in two years. I'm only telling you how things are . . . You are entirely free—only, when I come back, Jean, I shall ask you to be mine! And if you won't—But I can't let myself think of that! Life wouldn't be life without you! Till then I shall live on hope. And your face will be with me always—night and day. You'll think of me sometimes—won't you?"
"You want to know the name of my father's ship," said Jean.
Somehow she could not make her voice quite so prosaic as she wished, for a strange joy was fluttering at her heart.
"Yes—I'll write it down in my pocket-book." After doing which, Cyril said in disappointed accents, "Not one word!"
"I thought you were not asking for a word. You inconsistent boy!" said Jean calmly. She lifted her eyes, dropped hitherto; and there was in them the old golden shining, once reserved for Oswald.
It was too much for Cyril's complete self-control. He made a hasty motion, an impulsive start forward, as if to clasp her in his arms; but Jean as quickly eluded him, stepping back.
"No! No! Nothing of that sort," she said in an odd restrained voice. "No nonsense, please. I shall not see you again till just at last—and then not alone. We are only friends still, just as we always have been. Both perfectly free. You understand? If I choose to marry meantime—Or if you choose to bring home a nice little Colonial wife—"
"Jean, if you say another word—"
"Then—good-bye!" And she vanished.
BOOK IV.
THE UPSHOT OF IT ALL.
"Yet in one respect,Just one, beloved, I am in nowise changed;I love you, loved you . . . loved you first and last,And love you on for ever. Now I knowI loved you always."E. B. BROWNING.
DUTTON GOSSIP.
"Mrs. Can.—Well, but this may be all a mistake. You know,Sir Benjamin, very trifling circumstances often give riseto the most injurious tales.""School for Scandal."
"ANY of those circulars ready, Jean? No matter if not—but—"
Jean mutely indicated a pile.
"All done! Thanks! You are a helper worth having. Now can you undertake the addresses? I have a list somewhere—in my study."
"My dear Jem!" remonstrated Mrs. Trevelyan. She had her feet on the fender, and an open story-book on her knee.
"I wonder where we are now," murmured Jean.
Jem looked up, and his grey eyes broke into laughter. When absorbed in thought, he had a harassed look, too old for his thirty-five years; but when he smiled, all was transformed; signs of wear and tear vanished; and hollows were mysteriously filled up.
"I forgot! Yes, of course—we adjourned here. All right—I have found the list. Just take the names in order, as they come."
"Jem, you really have no conscience. Jean has been at work for you the whole day," drowsily remarked Mrs. Trevelyan.
"Oh, I like it. Not another word, please, mother. Yes, give me the list."
Jem delayed to scan Jean questioningly, and she met his gaze with a frank smile.
Two years and a quarter in Dutton Rectory had transmuted her into a daughter of the house. Mrs. Trevelyan was no longer "cousin" but "mother"; and Jem was a charming mixture of pastor, master, and brother.
Jean had developed fast in this new environment. She was in fuller correspondence with it than with any previous atmosphere. While not a whit less decisive and practical, she had become softer, gentler, more gracious. That half of her which had been assiduously repressed at Dulveriford Rectory was assiduously cultivated at Dutton Rectory; and Jean's whole being responded to the cultivation, opening out like a flower in warm sunshine, after long exposure to east winds. She was less shy and reserved; her smiles had learnt to come and go freely; and the old habitual gravity was replaced by habitual sunshine. This was the real Jean, never before permitted to expand into her natural outlines. Dearly as she loved her father, much as she felt the long separation from him, hardly anything could have occurred more effectual for the finishing touches needed by her womanly shape, than such a spell of Dutton Rectory life.
A second long and severe illness, several months past, through which Mr. Trevelyan had been nursed by Cyril with a daughter's devotion, had delayed the return of the travellers beyond the time originally fixed; but now they were believed to be actually en route for home, coming, for the sake of the voyage, "by long sea" round the Cape of Good Hope. Cyril's last letter, written from Melbourne, had spoken of immediately securing their passage in the "Spanish Gipsy," expected to start some three weeks or so later.
Since the receipt of this letter, no news had arrived; and such an unwonted gap in the correspondence caused much perplexity. The "Spanish Gipsy" had now been for many weeks on her way. Whether Mr. Trevelyan and Cyril were on board remained an open question, though there seemed to be no substantial reason for doubting the fact.
When they should reach England, Dutton Rectory would have to part with its "daughter;" no agreeable prospect for Jem or his mother. Jean had made herself a necessary of life to them both.
But why needed matters so to end? Gentle Mrs. Trevelyan often put this question to herself, thinking how easily and prettily a wind-up could have been effected in one of her favourite story-books. Dear Jem only had to say, "Will you marry me, Jean?" and Jean only had to say, "Yes, I will, Jem," and then they could all three live together and be happy ever after.
Dear Jem, however, showed not a ghost of an inclination to do anything of the kind. He was fond of Jean, and he sometimes remarked what a fine-looking useful girl she was; while Jean was delighted to be employed, and seemed to have an unlimited veneration for Jem's opinion on all manner of vexed questions. Yet this by no means proved that Jem wanted to marry Jean, or that Jean would have been willing to marry Jem.
A man seldom chooses his wife for her business capabilities; and a woman may have an enormous respect for the mental and spiritual calibre of a man, whom she could on no account accept for a husband. They jogged on famously together as cousins—or as Rector and female Curate—but tokens of an impending love affair, with a distant view of church-bells and orange-blossoms, simply were not. Jean never blushed; Jem never looked conscious.
Two years and a half in Dutton had established Jem there as a leading man; generally popular because of his charm of manner; though not universally approved, because he could not always think what others thought, or do what others would have dictated. He had, of course, opponents and detractors. Colonel Atherstone looked at him askance; and Colonel Atherstone's little clique cast oblique glances in imitation of their leader. Jem was still not enough of a party-man to be swallowed down, views and all, at one gulp, by any particular party in the Church—High or Low, Evangelical or Broad.
But he was the man in Dutton of all others to whom people appealed in perplexity, and to whom they came in sorrow. His wisdom was found to be just and true, his sympathy unbounded, his readiness to take trouble untirable. Above all, his life was seen to be fair and Christ-like; therefore his influence was widespread and deep. In contact with his free and loving spirit, it even came to pass that the narrow sometimes grew a little less narrow, the bumptious a little less bumptious, the condemnatory a little less condemnatory.
After this long digression—!
"Sure you have not done too much?" asked Jem.
"Not an atom! Though I know who has!"—sotto voce.
Jem ignored the last remark. "Well, but don't go on too long. I'm apt to be hard on my helpers."
"I shouldn't have thought you were ever hard on anybody."
"You think not?"
Jean failed to decipher the look which crept over his face—a tired self-questioning look—a look which she had always associated, and always would associate, with Evelyn Villiers. Jean could never slay this association of ideas. It had begun vaguely in her childhood, had taken definite shape in her girlhood; had survived until now. She no longer counted Jem to be in love with Evelyn. Observation and judgment both told her that he had or must have overcome the old romantic fancy—"if it had only been a fancy!" And the idea of Jem marrying, seldom occurred to her mind.
Still she was conscious of a certain power possessed by Evelyn over Jem's spirits—like the power of greater or less air-pressure on the mercury of a thermometer. Evelyn herself did not know it; but her touch in a moment sent his mercury up or down. When this particular look came, a look of strain and weariness, with indented hollows in cheek and brow, Jean never could resist an instinctive recurrence of thought to Evelyn. Had Evelyn said or done something to worry him?
Aloud Jean said nothing, and Jem went back to his writing, but the effort of work was manifest. Twice there was a renewed break; and she saw his hand steal over the thick hair, already streaked with grey.
"I wish you would give in, and take an hour's rest," she murmured.
"Too much to do! I am behind-hand as it is."
"Jean, dear, I do so like the way you do your hair now," interposed Mrs. Trevelyan, who had been sleepily speculating about "dear Jem's" possible future, and why a particular arrangement might not come to pass.
"Don't you, Jem?"
Jem laughed, and said, "Very neat."
"It shows the shape of her head so nicely. Jean has such a well-shaped head. The bumps are all in good proportion."
Jean's pen went vigorously.
"She has such an amount of veneration. I can't endure a flat head. It always means a small poor conceited nature. Jean's head at the top is like—"
"Like a cupola," suggested Jem.
"Now, my dear Jem!"
"Or an apple-dumpling," said Jean.
"No, indeed! You have veneration—and decision—and perseverance—"
"And a whole lot of quarrelsomeness in the bumps behind my ears."
"Combativeness," corrected Jem.
"I don't see the difference. Oh!—here's an interruption! Come in!"
"Miss Atherstone, sir."
"Jean, you'll undertake the good lady."
"Miss Atherstone asked for you, sir."
"Never mind! I'll go," quoth Jean. "Some stupid meeting, I dare say—or soup-tickets. If you are really wanted, I'll call you. Mother looks half asleep."
Miss Atherstone disapproved of Jem's views, real or supposed, on Church questions; therefore she never called at the Rectory except on business. She met Jean with a solemn air, and received dubiously the excuse of Jem's over-full time.
"Yes—he is a busy man we all know," she assented, looking at the rubbed knuckles of her second-best kid gloves, which she had counted quite good enough for the Rectory.
She wore a puce-coloured silk dress, relegated from long evening wear, a good deal frayed, and not exactly suited to a very cold May day; and her brown bonnet was trimmed with blue cornflowers interspersed among nodding ears of corn, more appropriate for autumn than for spring. Every time she moved her head, those ears bobbed stiffly; and Jean found a fascination in watching for the next bob, distantly akin to the interest with which one watches for the next wave-splash on a sea-beach.
"A very busy person!"—with an accent of pity, as if to imply, "Busy, alas, about what?"
For the Colonel still counted Jem a dangerous young man! And his sister dutifully followed suit.
"Perhaps you could give me a message for him," suggested Jean.
"Thank you—but really—no, it is of no consequence," hesitated Miss Atherstone. "Merely a—merely an idea—Another time, perhaps."
"He will come in a moment, if you wish."
No, Miss Atherstone would not have him called. O no, certainly not. She fidgeted with her twirled glove-ends, always too long for the fat short fingers. And Mrs. Trevelyan was resting in the study—not very strong, she believed. How very useful Miss Trevelyan must be in the house—like an adopted daughter! So delightful to have a home among relations, during her father's absence. And Mr. Trevelyan was quite recovered from his second illness? Dear! How trying that must have been! And he had been for a voyage since to the South Sea Islands, had he not? And he was coming home round the Cape, was he not? Dear! How nice! What a travelled man he would be! They were expected home very soon, she was told—Mr. Trevelyan—and—and—Sir Cyril Devereux with him!
Jean could not in the least have told what it was in the utterance which made her colour deepen. She was not given to blushing; and till this moment she had firmly believed that no human being beyond their two selves knew of the state of affairs between herself and Cyril. Jean had never breathed a word on the subject; and she had no idea of what Cyril had impulsively said to Miss Devereux.
Sybella, being—from her point of view, wisely—desirous to keep the notion a dead secret, had only let it slip to Lady Lucas, and Lady Lucas had only told a dozen other people, always under a strict pledge of secrecy. The tale thus weighted had travelled slowly: still, it had travelled.
A faint whisper of it even reached Jem, and in that direction went no farther. Gossip was apt to fall back, innocuous, from the shield of Mrs. Trevelyan's gentle density; and if the story as expressed in airy undulations, ever pattered on the drums of her ears, it had failed to reach her brain. Nobody had mentioned it to Jean; for people were a little afraid of Jean, unless they knew her well; and the few who did know her well, were the last who would have said anything.
So until now she had been able to speak of Cyril easily and without a blush, because she never supposed anybody to suspect how matters lay. Indeed, Jean herself was by no means sure how things did or would lie. Cyril wrote her constantly and freely; but they always had corresponded from childhood; and Cyril did not use lover-like terms. He had attempted it at first, and Jean had made no response, being determined to leave him free; so he had dropped the attempt. That was now over two years ago; and two years are a long time under the age of twenty-four.
Whatever amount of questioning had gone on below the surface with Jean, she had till this instant shown no consciousness in connection with Cyril. And now, all in a moment, without warning, at the sound of his name, uttered in a tone of peculiar meaning, her cheeks flamed.
Miss Atherstone's sharp little eyes ran all over Jean. "Yes?" she said, and waited, as if most willing to act feminine confessor. "Yes? It has been a long separation!"
"Very long," Jean replied, looking her caller straight in the face, though unable to control her own colouring. "But if my father comes home strong again, I shall not regret the parting."
Miss Atherstone sighed lugubriously—quite à la Sybella.
"And one may hope—" she said. "One may hope—! Travel does improve the mind! At least, people say so. Sir Cyril was so young—painfully young, poor boy, before he went out! One cannot but hope, at least, that his most unfortunate attachment to that little Miss Lucas—a merely passing fancy, no doubt—"
Another wave of colour swept into the first, and Jean was wroth with herself. She sat resolutely upright, her eyes shining with an angry gleam. Was that tale known too? Could nothing ever be hidden in Dutton? But she only said, "Miss Lucas?"
"Oh, I thought you were sure to have heard! And, after all, it might be a mistake. Some have said that he was engaged all the time—elsewhere!" significantly. "Pray do not be annoyed, Miss Trevelyan. I sincerely hope it may be untrue. No one could wish such a connection for Sir Cyril! So very objectionable! I merely allude to what everybody remarked—the way he haunted that house for weeks. But probably, poor youth, he became aware of his danger, and wisely fled from it. If only it has not been an exchange for something worse!"
Had Miss Atherstone an object in saying all this? Was she seeking to discover the state of Jean's feelings towards Cyril? Had she been sent by Miss Devereux? Was she stupid or was she wicked? Jean put these questions silently, in girlish indignation, while saying aloud, "I think 'everybody' would be better occupied in attending to their own concerns. One gets out of patience with Dutton gossip."
It was Miss Atherstone's turn to be angry, and the ears of corn oscillated as if stirred by a gale.
"I am not accustomed, I must say, to having a friendly interest in others' welfare called by so harsh a name," she said, caressing again her untidy finger-tips.
"But, after all, it is of no consequence! One must submit, in this world, to be misunderstood! It is one of the trials of life! . . . As you imply, Sir Cyril's movements do not concern us! He is quite at liberty to get himself engaged out there, if he chooses—to a squatter's daughter! Or a bushman's! It really concerns nobody—except his poor excellent worthy aunt! And I am sure Miss Devereux had had little enough of comfort in her nephew! Such devotion to him—and such a poor return! Such ingratitude! She has had a succession of troubles. If she were not so truly good as she is, she must have sunk beneath them . . . And this will be only one trial more. One burden added! She will be resigned. Dear Miss Devereux is always so sweetly resigned. As I tell her, it is quite a lesson . . . But to have to make way for, such a successor! A mere Colonial young lady! Oh, I believe the family is not bad. Not bushrangers!—" with a solemn attempt at a joke.
"And the girl herself is pretty. In the style of Miss Lucas—small, and dark eyes! Still—a Colonial family! One does not expect that, for Sir Cyril Devereux! And his beloved aunt allowed no choice—no opinion—after her years of devotion to him!"
Jean's colour did not deepen further; nor did it fade too fast.
"How soon are they going to be married?" she asked.
"I am not sure that the date is settled," said Miss Atherstone, her eyes running over Jean again. "In fact, the engagement is still something of a secret."
"A Dutton secret, I suppose!"
The satire was lost upon Miss Atherstone. "Not Dutton," she said. "A friend of mine has a sister out in Melbourne."
"I see. So it is on the very best authority. And you came to tell us the news as soon as you heard. How kind!"
"Sir Cyril will no doubt make the matter known when he reaches England."
"No doubt. But I don't see why he should not wait to marry her, and bring her home."
"If he has started—"
"We do not know that he has. The last letter spoke of probably taking their passage—and since then there has been a gap in our correspondence. We have been rather puzzled; but this explains all," said Jean, with the utmost composure. "Sir Cyril has most likely settled at the last moment to stay behind and be married. And in that case my father would, I fancy, come home by Suez. Why, he might arrive any day!"
"Well, I can see that you will not omit to give a welcome to the bride of your old playfellow," said Miss Atherstone, with a touch of something like spite, because she was conscious of failure. She found her feet awkwardly, as she spoke.
"No, indeed! We shall have to make a big arch of welcome at the Brow entrance."
Jean rang the bell, tranquilly shook hands, and smiled Miss Atherstone out of the room. Then she stood still—to think.
"It may be true!" she pronounced slowly, half aloud. "Not sure! But not impossible. How can one tell? Why should he not? We are perfectly free—both of us! I have taken care of that. And I have always said I would not blame him—if—"
She did not finish the sentence, but pulled herself together, and went to the study.
"Nothing important?" asked Jem. "Why, Jean!—I could almost think you had been in a passion. Pardon the idea."
"I think I have. She didn't come on business, really—only to talk gossip. I can't imagine how she had the face to ask for you; but, of course, she would have made some excuse for doing it, if you had appeared. Mother asleep, I see."
Jean fell fiercely to work over the addresses, trying to smother thought in action. There was a sore consciousness, deep down, that if this tale proved to be true, life would look very blank. She had thought herself prepared for anything—but somehow—That "somehow" meant a good deal.
For a while only the soft scratching of rival pens could be heard. Then Jem asked—
"Can you go to the Park to-day?"
"This afternoon? Does Evelyn want me?"
"She would like a call after tea. I met her before lunch."
"Miss Moggridge will be out then, I suppose. I would rather have got all this done. But if I ought—"
"I should like you to go."
"Nothing wrong with Evelyn?"
A pause; and then, in hushed tones—
"She does not look well, or happy. This is for yourself only. You might be some help."
"I don't see how. Why doesn't she go to you for advice?"
The question had no answer.
"I'll do as you wish, of course. But it will only be 'Miss Moggridge' again. She doesn't suit Evelyn; and nothing can make them suit . . . After all, if they were apart, would Evelyn be happier? Evelyn has always had her pet worry ever since I can remember. First it was Miss Devereux; and then the General; and then losing him; and now Miss Moggridge. If it were not Miss Moggridge, I suppose it would be something or somebody else . . . Jem, you do look tired this afternoon! What is the reason? Has Evelyn said anything to worry you?"
Jem's "Nonsense!" had an unwontedly brusque sound.
Jean was off her balance, or she would not have made the suggestion.
"I should not be surprised! I don't mean anything unkind. Nobody loves Evelyn more than I do—but that is the very reason! I mean, when she looks so sweet and sad, and those great eyes are just like a wounded collie's begging for pity—Oh, I'm every inch as absurd as anybody can be. I forget all she has in life to make her happy; and it gives me a heartache for hours after. I believe it gives you the same—or a headache," added Jean prudently, wondering why she had said so much. "I wish Evelyn had to be busy; not so much time to sit and dream."
"If you go after tea, I will call an hour later to walk home with you."
"Yes, do. That will be nice. I hear the tea going into the drawing-room. Oh—another interruption!"
This time Captain Lucas was shown into the study. He had become a frequent visitor there, and Jem's strengthening uplifting influence had worked wonders with the man. Not only had he fought through more than two years without another breakdown; but the very fight had become easier, the craving less keen and more controllable. Jem kept him employed in many ways, found him new interests and pleasures, and exercised, busy as he was, a constant watchfulness, which gave invaluable help to the wife and daughter.
Jean was often at the red house, Emmie often at the Rectory; and something of a friendship had sprung up between the two girls, affectionate on the part of Jean, unlimited in admiration on the part of Emmie.
Captain Lucas looked serious and troubled. "I want a word with you, presently," he said to Jem; but he consented to take tea first with the ladies.
Then the two gentlemen retired to the study, and Jean sped away to the Park.
THE "SPANISH GIPSY."
"To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,Creeps in this petty pace from day to day.• • • • •"Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player,That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,And then is heard no more."SHAKESPEARE.
JEAN'S estimate of Evelyn Villiers as one who "had always a pet worry," was not far wrong—indeed, such a statement might perhaps be made of nine out of every ten individuals, then or now—yet it was an estimate with two sides. Almost everything has two sides, if it possesses a side at all; and here was no exception.
The distinctive characteristic of Evelyn's case lay, not so much in the possession of a worry, or a succession of worries, as in the fact of rather too much leisure for looking at those worries; perhaps too in the absence of a spirit which should lift her above them. Life hitherto had been too soft and shielded for the richer development of Evelyn's character. She was like a plant, by nature hardy, which would flourish on the border of Alpine snow, but which grows pale and sickly in the vitiated air of a hothouse.
Still these worries were real of their kind; no mere outgrowth of the imagination. It is fair to admit so much. Sybella Devereux would have been a severe trial to almost any young niece, flung upon her tender mercies. The General, with all his goodness, must have been a pull upon the patience of any wife who could not entirely submit her opinions to his. The sorrow of losing him must have been in any case enhanced by the recollections of previous friction. As for Miss Moggridge—Jean was often fain to admit that she too would have found that excellent lady tiresome as a life-long companion. But then, why had Evelyn created the companionship?
Miss Moggridge was undoubtedly excellent, in the true sense of the word. She excelled alike in right principle, in right feeling, in right action. That is not to say she was perfect; but who is perfect? She had her faults, of course, like other people. She was, theoretically, so liberal-minded that, practically, she could see no manner of illiberality in another without risings of righteous anger. And, unfortunately, with her, as with many other good people, human anger is apt to outrun the righteous boundary.
To put it differently, she was—or, at all events, she counted herself—so broad in her mental and spiritual make, that it made her wrathful to find anybody narrow. But most naturally, the narrow individual, who called his narrowness by the more euphonistic title of "sound principle," failed to see the Christian beauty of a broadism, which was flung like a cudgel at his devoted head. Since his narrower line of thought was every inch as much a matter of right with him as Miss Moggridge's broader line of thought was a matter of right with her, it was to the last degree improbable that she should cudgel him over to her way of thinking. Nay, the question even arises in the mind of a quiet looker-on—was her vaunted broadism altogether broad, and did it not partake of inevitable human narrowness, only under a fresh guise?
Evelyn herself was not narrow, rather the reverse. Since her husband's death, however, she could not patiently endure aught which might seem to be levelled at his memory. This made Miss Moggridge peculiarly liable to tread upon Evelyn's corns; and with all her devotion to Evelyn, Miss Moggridge was clumsy in her manner of walking.
The two ladies had rubbed on together for three years, and might rub on a good deal longer; but such "rubbing on" can hardly mean present happiness, however much it may be expected to improve one's spiritual shape in the end. Moreover, though friction does commonly wear away corners, it may be so applied as only to sharpen the angles.
Jean had been into Evelyn's boudoir, one may safely assert, hundreds of times; yet she rarely entered that room without at least a transient recollection of a certain snowy day, years since, when she had witnessed the last parting between General Villiers and his young wife.
Such recallings were more vivid than usual on this particular afternoon; notwithstanding the difference of a clear May day, cold but sunshiny. Perhaps the association of ideas lay in Evelyn's listless and sad air. She welcomed Jean lovingly; then sank back in a cushioned chair, lifting deep violet eyes, full of the dumb-animal appeal, of which Jean had spoken to Jem. The face, though so much older and strictly less beautiful, was infinitely sweet and attractive. Jean, always strongly under the influence of this attraction, could never agree with Sybella Devereux's verdict as to "how dear Evelyn was gone off in her looks."
"Sit down here by me, Jean. Sit down, and talk me into a better frame of mind. I am feeling wicked. Nothing is worth doing or worth living for; and I am sick of everything and everybody. Except—yes, of course, there are always exceptions. Does it sound very dreadful?"
"It sounds dyspeptic. You had better see Dr. Ingram," Jean said the words in jest; and then she wondered if she ought not to say them seriously. Jem had remarked that Evelyn was not looking well. Not well! The little hand, lying on her knee, was transparent; and the fair face seemed to have shrunk, lending unnatural largeness to the eyes. Had this come suddenly? It dawned upon Jean in a flash.
"Dr. Ingram would laugh at me. O yes, he would. He can laugh at feminine nerves."
"Evelyn, have you grown thin lately?"
"My dresses have all grown too big. Things stretch so!"
Jean lifted the slight hand, and looked it over attentively.
"Rings don't stretch—do they?" laughed Evelyn. "I'm in danger of losing mine. It is all right, Jean—nothing but want of interest in life. I can't eat, and Miss Moggridge gives me no peace . . . I'm so tired of it all—and of her! If I could only manage to see the dear creature once a day, for an hour or two, we should get on. But every day, and all day!—Sometimes I don't know how to breathe."
"Only—"
"You look exactly as Mr. Trevelyan did this morning. I was prowling round the Church, and I came across him—or he came across me. Somehow, I had a confidential fit—one does with some people, you know—and I told him what I was feeling. Not about Miss Moggridge: there was no need to drag her name in: Only that everything seemed 'stale and unprofitable!'"
"And he said—"
"Said I was wrong, quite plainly. The feeling might be inevitable—perhaps physical—but I was wrong to give in to it. He told me, almost sternly, that life ought not to be empty for me—that I ought to find an object, if I have not one. He spoke of poverty of aim, and living too much for self . . . It is all true, no doubt, but—Do you find him stern? I did not expect it."
"No," Jean said wonderingly.
"I suppose he thinks mine a mere butterfly existence, all for pleasure. And yet—"
She stopped speaking; and two large tears crept from under her lashes.
"It must seem absurd to you—to everybody—that I should talk of troubles. I, in my easy existence! Yet things are not always exactly what they seem . . . I think I would give half my remaining years, if the choice were offered me, to have him back for one month. It would be—such rest. He loved me so truly. And nobody—"
"Don't say that. It is not quite real."
"Perhaps not in one sense; but in another—Jean, how can you enter into it all? I am so much older. There are different kinds of love; and some kinds don't meet one's craving . . . I suppose one cannot often have just what one would choose. Better not, some would say. I don't see that. I suppose the denial has to be—but to be loved is such a help! . . . Mr. Trevelyan said, in that calm cold manner of his—"
"Jem cold!!"
"Did I call him 'cold'? No, 'cold' is hardly the word. It means repulsion, and he does not repel. He wins one's confidence somehow—in an abstract sort of way. But his manner is so entirely self-mastered—as if he had reached a height beyond all passion of feeling. Almost as if nothing that merely touched himself could never ruffle him again. It is beautiful, of course; only a little chilly. That was what he was this morning—very kind, but just a degree chilly. He listened to me with such intense patience, and looked most gentle—as he does, you know—yet when he spoke, he was stern . . . He said life ought to be something better for me than drifting down the stream, and getting myself bruised among jagged rocks. He told me to take my oars, and row up the stream . . . And, of course, he is right—he is perfectly right! . . . If only I had energy to obey!"
"Jem is not stern or cold! Evelyn, what can you mean? You don't understand Jem."
"Do I not?" Two drops again shone on Evelyn's lashes, then dropped heavily? "How silly I am!" she said, with a laugh. "Like a baby! After all, what can I do in life that is different? I am set down here—tied to a place that I detest. Yes, I detest it, Jean. I never can love Dutton, even for my husband's sake. Sometimes I think I will abdicate—throw up everything, and install Thomas Villiers in my place. He is a man who would not abuse such a trust. Then I should be free, and I could go and work at the East-End. I have had for years a craving for that kind of life—a life of real hard work for others . . . My husband would not have chosen it for me, perhaps—to become a deaconess or sister, I mean. But where he is now—don't you think they see with other eyes? Things must look so different there! He will understand now—if he sees—the want in my life—the need for fresh interests . . . I should like to turn everything upside down, and to start afresh."
"Would that make you happier?"
"You think I should want the Park back as soon as I had given it up? O no—never. I am so weary of the place . . . Now I have talked enough about myself. It is a bad habit. No letters yet from our wanderers?"
"None. Jem thinks that the last before they started must have gone astray—perhaps not been posted. And they may for once have skipped over a mail or two before that. Once really off, we must of course expect a long break. We shall hear in good time, I dare say."
"And you don't worry yourself in the least—brave sensible Jean!"
"I'm too busy; and what is the use? Generally one finds in the end some common-sense explanation, which one might have known all the time. If anything had happened to put off their starting in the 'Spanish Gipsy,' why should they not have written to say so? If they were staying on at Melbourne, what should have prevented their writing? Unless—One possible explanation has come up. A piece of gossip, but I don't know why it should not be true," said Jean hardily, without a blush. "Miss Atherstone says Cyril is engaged."
"To—whom?"
"A young lady in Melbourne."
Evelyn did not at once repudiate the idea, as Jean had expected. "How did Miss Atherstone hear?"
"A letter from a friend to a friend of hers. Then you think it is true?" asked Jean, with a terrible heart-sinking.
"Cyril has mentioned several times a girl, named Lilias Mackenzie. I have had a passing suspicion more than once. However—" Evelyn hesitated, not looking at Jean.
Though Cyril had not confided in his sister before he left home, Evelyn had a pretty clear inkling as to affairs; but after two years of separation, who could foretell what might come to pass?
"It maybe all nonsense. Your father says nothing."
"He would not. It is not his way."
"If there were an engagement, why should not Cyril speak out?"
Evelyn put this question doubtfully, and was again silent. Jean longed to know more, but could not bring herself to ask. Cyril had never so much as mentioned to her the name of Lilias Mackenzie; nor had her father. The latter had meant little; for Mr. Trevelyan was not good at items of news. Did Lilias Mackenzie live in Melbourne? Had Cyril and Lilias met constantly, through the months of Mr. Trevelyan's long illness and convalescence? Was that why Mr. Trevelyan and Cyril had returned to Melbourne for some weeks, after their trip to the South Sea Islands before turning homeward? How natural and simple the whole seemed! Jean kept strict watch over her face while thinking such thoughts—successful watch, she believed, till she looked up, to meet a wistful and compassionate gaze. Evelyn's hand came on hers with a soft pressure. This would not do. Nobody might suspect. Nobody should blame Cyril. Jean braced herself for action immediately.
"If there were an engagement, I don't see why he should not stay out to marry Miss Mackenzie," she said, with cheerful composure. "So I told Miss Atherstone. It would be absurd to come home, and then to go out again. And that long voyage round the Cape—Oh, he would never do it! Much more likely that he should stay behind; and if my father were travelling alone, he would perhaps come by Suez after all. If they had not taken their passage, that is to say . . . Miss Atherstone says the girl is little and pretty, with dark eyes. Cyril admires dark eyes."
"Does he? I don't remember. Well—we shall see. People often do unexpected things."
Evelyn was no whit deceived by Jean's cheerfulness, but she at once fell in with the assumed mood.
Then Jem was announced, and a slight flush came to Evelyn's cheeks, as she welcomed him with her usual gentle grace. Jem had a strange look, Jean thought; and Evelyn saw the same. He was pale, with an unusual pallor, as if some shock had driven all the blood inward; and his eyes had an absorbed expression.
Jean wondered whether he observed Evelyn's rare flush and brightness. A gleam of the old beauty came back, together with a new delicacy; but she hardly thought Jem was awake to either. His mind seemed to be elsewhere—an unusual event with one whose interest was always so keenly present. For once, he appeared to have nothing to say.
"Jean told me that you would walk home with her," Evelyn remarked: one or two observations having won no response. "Too late to offer you tea, I'm afraid . . . How is Mrs. Trevelyan to-day? She will not like this east wind . . . No letters yet from abroad! Curious, is it not?"
A nameless change, crossing Jem's face, arrested Evelyn's attention—a wave of some strong feeling, quickly checked. She talked on other topics for three or four minutes, then reverted to the non-arrival of letters; and again the same look was manifest.
"Jean dear, would it trouble you very much—I wish you would go to my room, and hunt for the second volume of Jean Ingelow's 'Poems.' Mrs. Trevelyan has the first, and I promised to lend her the second. You will find it upstairs—somewhere."
Jean went at once, conscious of being purposely sent away. She suspected that Evelyn might have said something in the morning to give Jem pain, and that a few words now would set the matter right. Also it might be that Evelyn wished to tell him of Cyril's reported engagement. In either case, she resolved not to find the book too quickly.
No sooner was the door shut, than Evelyn said, "You have heard bad news."
"It may not be—"
"But so far as you know—Is Mr. Trevelyan ill again?"
"No."
"Jean may be back any moment. You will not keep me in suspense! Something has happened to one of them."
"Or—to both!"
"Yes! I can bear to be told. Go on, please."
No answer came, and she asked, "Is it illness?"
"No."
"Or accident?"
Jem rose, with an involuntary motion, and turned away. He could not endure to bring sorrow to her. To bring sorrow to any one was great pain; but this was heartrending.
She only believed him to be overcome by the greatness of whatever calamity had befallen them. The tie between him and either her brother or Jean's father was not of so close a nature that she would have expected intense distress on his part! Yet intense distress was written on every line of his face.
It surprised Evelyn a little; though, of course, he would feel acutely for Jean—so kind and sympathetic as he was known to be, even while she individually had found him somewhat cold. All this passed in a flash through Evelyn's mind, together with countless conjectures. She too rose, and went to the door, which she quietly bolted. Then coming to Jem, in the bow-window, she scanned him earnestly with eyes more widely open than usual under the shock of sudden fear, trying to read in his look what he would not or could not say.
"You will not keep me in suspense," she repeated. "See—I can bear it. Nothing can be worse than what I am fancying now. No small matter would touch you like this! Is it the very worst?"
She laid a hand on Jem's arm, not dreaming how her light touch shook the very being of the man. "Is it—? I am waiting to know."
"The 'Spanish Gipsy'—" and a break—"has gone down—with all on board."
"None saved!"
"Not one."
He thought Evelyn would have fainted, but she did not.
"Thanks—no—I am not ill," she said in a low voice, as a slight gesture on his part showed the expectation. She grow colourless, and there was a deep sigh, but she stood firm. "Then, if—if they were on board—"
"We have no certainty that they were."
"They had made up their minds, I am afraid."
"A dozen things may have intervened—to prevent—"
"Yes—if—" and another sigh. "Poor boy!"
"If I could but have kept it from you—at least till we were sure!"
The look she gave him was very sweet. "Thanks—I know you would do all you could," she said, with a momentary wonder that she should ever have called him cold. "But indeed I am not thinking of myself. Jean must not know."
"Impossible to hide it. Captain Lucas happened to hear by private telegram. He had a cousin on board; and he has a friend at the head-office. To-morrow morning it will be in the papers."
"Then you must countermand your papers for to-morrow morning. It is the only thing to do. Jean will think they have been forgotten. And I will take her away—at once. Not too far, but abroad—to Rouen, I think. We could get home quickly from there—if—but Jean must not hear yet—till we know! To lose—both—at one blow! It would be too terrible!"
Jem did not at once reply. He had seldom passed through a sharper ordeal than this interview. The whole force of his powerful will was needed to restrain the rush of feeling, aroused by her look of sorrow, to hold back words and looks which must have revealed his love. He had long ceased to ask whether or no he loved Evelyn. He knew only too well that he never had loved, and never could love, any other woman. Hitherto he had not shown his love; nor did he now: though to hide it at such a moment, to keep up a merely kind and interested manner, taxed his self-control to the utmost. If Evelyn had never seen him so pale, she had also never seen him more composed—in feature; but the struggle brought on trembling; and Jem was thankful when Evelyn sat down, so that he might do the same.
"You will help me, will you not?" she went on earnestly. "Jean must not know yet. If the loss has to be borne, she will bear it; only we must spare her the uncertainty. You will send a telegram, of course, to Melbourne, to know if they started."
Jem signified assent.
"I suppose the answer will hardly arrive for a day or two; and you could forward it at once to Rouen. Jean will be out of reach there of gossip. Will you help me to arrange things? I am not very well, and a little trip abroad might be expected to do me good. Don't you think so? Look—" and she held out her hand—"you see how thin I have grown. Jean noticed that; and you can say that I need a change. Say anything you like, only make her come with me to-morrow. She will understand the need not to put off, if we go at all."
Jem took in his own the offered hand, and viewed critically the frail fingers, as Jean had done.
Evelyn became aware of his trembling; and it seemed to her not quite consistent with her theory of Jem's inviolable composure. A momentary feeling of surprise was created.
But the next instant, he dropped her hand, saying—
"Yes, you are much too thin."
"And you will help me?"
"If I can do anything. I should be glad to spare Jean."
"That is it! Just to spare her needless suspense."
Then Evelyn told him briefly the tale of Cyril's supposed engagement; and Jem had time to master himself while listening.
"I do not believe it," he said at the end.
"I used to think it would be Jean."
"I think so too—" A pause, and an involuntary "If—"
Some one had tried the door once, in vain; and some one now tried it softly a second time. Evelyn hastily sketched her plan of action, obtained Jem's sanction, and summoned Jean.
It was not Jean's fashion to raise needless difficulties. She guessed that some particular cause underlay the sudden scheme; and she conjectured that the cause might be Cyril's rumoured engagement. Rather absurd if it were so—to treat her like a feeble inane creature, not able to endure a brief uncertainty without the distraction of a week or two abroad. But Jean was wisely silent as to her own conjectures, and accepted the plan as it was meant.
If the trip would do Evelyn good, and if Evelyn wanted her, she would go. Next day!—Rather soon, but she could be ready. Better soon, because then she could get back in time to welcome her father, if he should return by Suez. Jean assented with the utmost cheerfulness; and on their way home, noting how ill Jem looked, she would not bother him with a single question.
IF IT WERE TRUE?
"All pain must be to work some good in the end."R. BROWNING.
"JEAN, are you getting tired of Rouen?"
"After four days in the place? No—why should I?"
"People don't always wait for a particular reason. It is rather stupid for you here. If I could go about more—"
"Well, yes—if you had a little more strength than a wren! When we get home, I shall put you into Dr. Ingram's hands."
"No use. There are—some things—which a doctor can't touch. What if I don't go home at all at present?"
"Rouen has not done you such an amount of good that you need wish to stay. I don't believe there is anything very wrong—only you are weak, and you want building up. I think you fret about people too much."
"My dear, you always were the personification of wisdom! Now pull the shawl over my feet, and run down to the coffee-room for a change. That nice old Mrs. Newnham is sure to be there. If not, you must come back. You might even arrange for a walk with her daughter. No, I cannot have you wandering about alone. You are not so elderly as you think: and this is not Dulveriford."
Jean arranged the shawl, and vanished. They had a little private sitting-room: though, for Jean's sake, Evelyn had chosen to dine at the table d'hôte, where they had formed a slight acquaintance with one old lady. Jean found her, as Evelyn had expected, but the daughter was already gone out, and Mrs. Newnham was no walker. So she resigned herself to the inevitable, and after a short chat, sat down at a table near one of the windows.
She could there amuse herself with a pile of papers and serials, or study French manners in the quaint street. Intrinsically, a Frenchman is diverse from an Englishman: and he always looks different—even in his mode of getting along a pavement. The gait and air of the one can hardly be mistaken for those of the other. Jean sometimes tried to analyse the difference, and found it difficult. Not even a waxed moustache, a sallow skin, and a pair of mobile shoulders, will turn an Englishman into a Frenchman. The distinction is more subtle in kind.
"And so much the better!" cogitated Jean, who, like most of her countrywomen, are apt to find everything abroad a little inferior to its counterpart at home.
She turned over a pile of newspapers, her mind running on the continued cessation of letters from the absentees, and reverting with a troublesome persistence to the report about Cyril. Jean could not put that story aside. It remained as an ever-present consciousness; not mastering her moods, for she was equably cheerful; but never out of sight.
Lilias Mackenzie! A pretty name: and a pretty girl. Dark-eyed and small, like Emmie Lucas! Well: why not? He might do worse. It was true that she had heard Cyril express a particular admiration for dark eyes—to Jean herself, whose eyes were not dark, but pale brown with spokes of green. He had made the remark at the Academy, when looking at some black-orbed dame on canvas.
Then she recalled her last parting with Cyril: the prolonged pressure of her hand: the expression of his face! More than that, the evening interview not long before, when he had resolutely declared that he never could or would marry anyone but Jean. Would he not? How much were such assertions worth? Time alone could show . . . Jean remembered how he had since devoted himself to the care of her father; how he had nursed the sick man like a daughter; how he had taken Mr. Trevelyan at his own cost for a trip to the South Sea Islands; how he had written to her, constantly and fully, week by week; how he had done or appeared to do all in his power to prove himself worthy of her confidence. And now, at the first break in their correspondence, at the first breath of gossip, Jean's trust threatened to fail.
"But it shall not," she said firmly to herself. "He deserves something better. I will not doubt him, till I have real reason."
The old lady, watching from a distance, wondered what had brought so fair a glow to the girl's singular eyes. She was greatly interested in Jean. Jean, unconscious of being observed, and forgetful of another's presence, drew from her pocket a letter always carried here—the first received from her father, after his long illness in Melbourne. In it, he told briefly what Cyril had been to him through that trying time.
"I have not really known the boy till now," he wrote; "yet I thought I did—after all these months together. Jean herself could hardly have done more. I have never been allowed to want a thing. It was no use to suggest his leaving me more to the nurse, and taking his pleasure. She was no great shakes, certainly, and Cyril did not trust her. He was with me most of the day, and often at night; and if I remonstrated, his answer was, 'For Jean's sake!' Strange to say, he, never seemed overdone. Womanly gentleness is beautiful, but when conjoined with manly strength, it is past praise. He is growing into a fine fellow—a thorough man, body and mind."
This was not quite the Cyril of Jean's knowledge—the coddled pet of Sybella, ready always to take care of himself.
"But Jem has often said there was more in Cyril than appeared. It is not fair to doubt him, without full proof—and I will not!" she repeated resolutely.
The glow of renewed confidence lent at once a different aspect to life.
Turning over another sheet, she came on a copy of the English "Times."
"Days old! Quite ancient! The very morning we left. I remember—the papers were late that day, and I did not see them before we started."
Jean skimmed column after column, to pass the time: her brain still busy in its back regions with Cyril.
"They will soon reach home now, if they really are off in the 'Spanish Gipsy.' A few weeks, I suppose—six or seven. Not likely that they should change, after once making up their minds; unless that story were true. But I will not believe it, until I know. If we should hear that they have actually started, then I shall be sure it is false. Cyril would never think of such a voyage—without need—if he were just engaged. My father could as well come home alone . . . The only thing is that fancy for Emmie Lucas! Otherwise I could laugh at the tale. Well—Emmie is heart-whole! That is one comfort. No harm done there."
Jean had an abrupt singular consciousness of receiving a blow. It might almost have been an actual physical blow, judged by sensation. Thought was scattered; and a grey haze descended on all around, coming like the fall of dusk. She sat motionless, gazing at the paper; hardly feeling; certainly not reasoning. The heavy blow came first, numbing her faculties, before the actual sense of those terrible words seemed to reach her understanding.
"LOSS OF THE 'SPANISH GIPSY!'"
The haze grew blacker, then partly cleared: and Jean read on:
"LOSS OF THE 'SPANISH GIPSY,' WITH ALL ON BOARD."
Not one saved! So much was clear. Jean's mind refused to grasp any further particulars. She was dazed with the shock, and could only watch fixedly, like a fascinated creature, the convolutions of the neat black letter-press, which took strange forms before her eyes, one shape dissolving into another, after the mode of kaleidoscope figures. Then she was far away from Rouen, out in the open sea; and great waves arose, dashing wildly; and there were men, struggling, sinking—and Cyril's face, a blanched dead face, below the cruel breakers.
"I hope nothing is wrong, Miss Trevelyan! No ill news?"
Mrs. Newnham's question broke into Jean's vision, and with a strong effort she recalled herself, looked up, and answered quietly—
"The loss of the 'Spanish Gipsy.'"
"Ah, yes, to be sure—on the way home from Australia. Very shocking, was it not? Poor things! I hope no friends of yours happened to be on board."
Jean was silent.
"Such a sad event! And I dare say many of them had been out for years. After a bad storm, was it not?"
"I—don't know."
"Yes; that was it. I remember. There have been so many casualties lately; but I remember. Another ship, the 'Shannon,' had been signalled, and was coming to their help, because the 'Spanish Gipsy' had been so much disabled. And all at once, it was seen to capsize and go down. Not a moment's warning, and not a person saved. The 'Shannon' was too far-off to get to the spot in time—though it does seem strange that none of the sailors should have been able to keep afloat. Those things do happen sometimes: but it is really very dreadful—quite terrible."
Jean could not talk of the horror which had fallen upon her. And the pitter-patter of conventional pity, looking blandly on from a comfortable distance, was only a degree less insupportable than the pitter-patter of conventional condolence would be.
She went back to the brief awful paragraph, which might mean so much to her. If they had started in the "Spanish Gipsy!" It all hinged there. One hand was put up to shield her face: and Mrs. Newnham, taking the hint, sank into silence.
Did the others know of this? Was it for this that Evelyn had hurried her away?
"So kindly meant! But what use?" she asked despairingly. "Nothing can undo it! And how can I bear to be here—out of reach? How can Evelyn bear it? If news were to come—But she will not wish to stay now—now I know it."
Jean passed quickly out of the room, sending no glance towards the old lady, whose very existence she had forgotten, and hastened upstairs. Entering the room, she found herself face to face with—Jem!
Jean showed no surprise, and forgot to shake hands. It seemed perfectly natural that Jem should be there. She came near, without a word, not knowing how altered was her own look. A quick interchange of glances passed between the other two. It was evident to both of them that Jean had some idea of the truth. Evelyn, much distressed, laid her hands on Jean's, which were rigid as iron.
"Mr. Trevelyan has so kindly come, dear," she faltered, "to—to see—if we—"
"No, no! To tell us—" urged Jean hoarsely. "To tell us—"
"Yes: to tell us just a little more. You are right. Dear Jean, we have tried to keep it from you, till we could be sure—and we are not really sure yet. But I am afraid—Have you guessed anything?"
"Not guessed! A paper—downstairs—" Jean had difficulty in saying the words. Her throat seemed to close with the effort; and she waited impatiently for them to speak.
"What did the paper say?" Jem was uncertain still how much she understood. "Something about the 'Spanish Gipsy?'"
"I know! I know! Gone down! And they—they—they—" She turned on him a face of agony.
"Tell her!" begged Evelyn, bursting into tears. "O tell her quickly."
"We cannot be absolutely certain of anything yet," Jem said, in his quietest manner. "I want you to understand this—not to be sure, until we really know. Still, I am afraid things do look bad. I sent a telegram to Melbourne the day you came away, asking whether or no they had started, and the answer has been unaccountably delayed. It ought to have arrived in a few hours, and I did not get it till this morning. But—"
"Yes! Yes! But—!" repeated Jean hoarsely. "Go on!"
"It is very short—only two words, and no particulars given. 'Both off!'—that is all it says. Whether by long sea or by Suez we cannot tell. There is no mention of the 'Spanish Gipsy.' I am disappointed to hear so little, and I have sent a second telegram asking for more information. It ought to come quickly—but meantime I hardly felt that it would be right to delay telling you—or at least Mrs. Villiers—what I had heard. So I came away at once. If only I could have brought something better!"
"Both! Both at once! Oh, it can't be! Not both!"
Evelyn's sobs were distressing: but Jean shed no tears. She looked bewildered.
"Impossible! Not both! Evelyn, don't cry so! What is the good? They will come home. It couldn't be—both of them!" Then to Jem—"We must go back at once. I can't stay here. You will take us—will you not? We could reach Dieppe in time—for the night-boat, I mean. I'll help Anderson. Evelyn needn't touch a thing. Only please not to stay here. Evelyn dear, don't let us."
She wrung her hands together, with a strange forlorn gesture, unlike Jean.
"Don't talk to me—about that, I mean! Don't pity me! We must not stop to think of anything—only just get off—and then—I don't want water, Jem! What is that for? You don't suppose I'm hysterical, do you? But I'll drink some, if you like. It doesn't matter. I only want to get away as fast—as fast as possible. And then—Evelyn, do, do stop crying! I don't know how to bear it. And what is the use? They must come home! It couldn't be—both of them! Don't hold me, please. I want to go."
"One word first! Jean, listen to me. The Mrs. Parkinson who wrote last week about Cyril being engaged, has written again; and now she contradicts that—says it is untrue!"
Jean's face relaxed its rigidity.
"She did mean Lilias Mackenzie—and Lilias Mackenzie is engaged to somebody else. Mrs. Parkinson saw Cyril, and she says he was all impatience to get home—so eager to be off."
"Poor Cyril!" whispered Jean, every feature quivering.
"He was true to you—I am sure he was."
"He—is true!"
Jean disengaged herself, stooped to kiss Evelyn, and was gone.
Half-an-hour later she reappeared, almost her usual self; only with reddened eyes and strained look; still urgently entreating to start immediately. For almost the first time in her life, she forgot to think of others, under the pull of this intense desire. Evelyn made no difficulties; and Jem believed that to be on the move might be best for both of them. As Jean had said, they could reach Dieppe in time for the night-packet, which did not start till after one o'clock in the morning.